


your silence clamors

by languisity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Feelings, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/languisity/pseuds/languisity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enough time has passed for Derek to admit that he wants things. It doesn't mean he goes after those things, but it's a step in the right direction. He can look at something--someone--and think 'I want' and sometimes it just is. Sometimes it doesn't twist into a soliloquy of self-loathing and inner pain and that's... that's progress. </p><p> </p><p>Or, that one where Derek kind of knows he deserves nice things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your silence clamors

 

 

Enough time has passed for Derek to admit that he wants things. It doesn't mean he goes after those things, but it's a step in the right direction. He can look at something— someone— and think 'I want' and sometimes it just is. Sometimes it doesn't twist into a soliloquy of self-loathing and inner pain and that's... that's progress.

Derek looks at Stiles now, older, sharper in some places and softer in others, and thinks about how he wants.

The whole pack is here in Beacon Hills for summer break, everyone crammed into Derek's apartment, except Jackson but he was never really pack anyway.

Stiles drifts away from whatever conversation he and Isaac were having—

 

("I can name, like, a hundred fertility gods in alphabetical order," Derek hears Stiles say.

"Please— I just— Please don't," Isaac says, blushing from some mix of embarrassment and annoyance.)

 

—and his eyes meet Stiles'. Stiles is holding up a half-empty bottle of beer, his second, in a silent toast and smiling lazily at Derek. He holds eye contact as he takes a sip, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, and Derek's eyes dip down for a moment to watch the line of Stiles' throat when he swallows. There's a drop of beer on Stiles' bottom lip, and his tongue darts out quick to lick it away before he smiles at Derek again.

"Hey, judgey," Stiles says. He isn't drunk, not really, but he's just this side of too relaxed. Easy.

Derek rolls his eyes and says, "I'm not judging you."

"You were staring," Stiles says, as if that's some kind of an explanation, and maybe it is. His fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle loosely, and then release it to tap each one lightly against the glass. If Derek concentrates, he can hear the soft, muted echo of sound the glass makes every time Stiles' fingers make contact.

"I was listening," Derek says.

"Right," Stiles says, and then turns away to wave at Scott to get his attention.

"It looked like two fauns dancing in a meadow," Stiles shouts across the room. "And you can't fail a Rorschach test. It's like failing at having a favorite color."

Derek feels a tension he hadn't even realized he was holding release and he takes a sip of his own drink, letting the sound of everyone wrap around him, warm and easy.

 

*

　

It's late by the time things quiet down. Boyd and Erica are on the couch, wrapped around each other and dozing, and Isaac is on the floor in front of them, curled in into himself, Erica's fingers tangled in his hair. Connected.

Scott left hours ago to go see Allison.

Derek is in the kitchen under the pretense of cleaning up, but he's just staring at the empty plates, cups, and bottles.

He hears Stiles coming and turns around.

"You headed out?" Derek says.

Stiles' hands smooth down his thighs, and then up again to hook his thumbs in his jean pockets. He shrugs, mouth turning down slightly, and then relaxes all at once. "Do you need any help?" he says.

He takes a step toward Derek, then another. "We kind of wrecked your place."

"It's fine," Derek says, and means it. More often than not, Derek uses the same cup and the same plate day in and day out, washing them after each meal. The mess is kind of nice; it makes his place feel more like a home.

Stiles nods a few times, but doesn't speak. The silence isn't empty; the TV is on and there's the soft sound of some late-night show playing in the background and, underneath that, the echoing chirping sounds of insects.

Derek waits.

Stiles sighs, a quick rush of air, and says, "So. You know I'm just gonna go ahead and, uh." He shakes his head, closing the distance between them instead, and touches a hand to Derek's chest over Derek's heart, fingers splayed. If Derek concentrates, he thinks he can feel Stiles' heartbeat through the palm of Stiles’ hand and doesn't let himself think.

He says, "Okay," bringing a hand up to close around Stiles' wrist, "Okay," and leans in.

 

*

 

Derek isn't Stiles' first anything. It soothes his conscience a little until he gets jealous and feels guilty that he's jealous. It’s vicious cycle.

Stiles fists the hand on Derek’s chest in his shirt when they kiss. Stiles' other hand moves to Derek's side, sliding up to fit against his ribs. Derek's hands are on Stiles' hips, pulling him in closer. Stiles kisses like he’s learning Derek, flicking his tongue against Derek’s, lightly at first then deeper when Derek's grip on his hips tightens. He nips at Derek's lower lip, does it again when Derek's breath catches, and smiles, brushing their noses together.

Derek walks them back until he's leaning against the edge of the sink. He hears low murmurs in the living room, Erica then Boyd, and goes still. Derek turns his head away, takes his hands off Stiles' hips and reaches back to grip the edge of the sink instead.

"You're— you don't, um," Stiles says, looking Derek in the eye, searching. "You okay?" Stiles' lips and cheeks are flushed pink, and he's smoothing his thumb back and forth absently over Derek's ribs.

Derek shivers, exhaling slowly through his nose, and shakes his head. "Just. Maybe not—"

"Right," Stiles says for the second time tonight, letting Derek go, and it's a little annoying, all of the assumptions packed into that one syllable. Annoying that Stiles is probably right about some of them.

"Here," Derek says, too sharp, and Stiles flinches. "Not here. I have a room."

"Oh," Stiles says. "I thought you— Never mind. It's stupid. Forget it."

"Yeah," Derek says. There’s a stubborn set to Stiles' jaw and Derek tenses, steels himself for a fight, but it drains away in an instant. Derek wonders a little what Stiles said to himself to go so calm all of a sudden.

When Stiles kisses him again, it's sweet, mouth gentle and soft against Derek's.

 

*

 

Two years ago, Stiles had given Derek a stuffed wolf as a gag gift on his birthday.

"You're stiff, man," he'd said, grinning.

Derek just stared, one hand absently petting the wolf's fur.

"I mean, like, you know, emotionally," Stiles said, making a squeezing gesture in front of his own chest that was probably supposed to provide a visual aid for his words. Derek couldn't decide if it was a little rude or just symbolic of a heart beating.

"Just. You're all tight. Like, just tense. You should probably limber up. Do a little verbal yoga." Stiles put his hands in his pocket, nodding his chin at the toy. "You can practice with him."

Stiles is on him again once they're through the bedroom door. He knocks into Derek a little too hard, stumbling, and Derek stumbles into his desk, caught off guard. A stuffed animal topples to the ground and Stiles is murmuring, "Sorry, sorry. You kept— I think I stepped on him. Sorry," against his neck.

"It's fine. It's just—" Derek says, but doesn't finish, can't think of anything to say that would matter right now. Derek lets Stiles back him up against the bed. He drops down and scoots back, letting Stiles fit himself into the space between Derek's legs.

Stiles eases down, pressing himself against Derek, and Derek tilts his hips up, moves against Stiles' hip and shudders, a moan catching in his throat.

Stiles says, "Like— yeah, like that," voice rough and low in Derek’s ear.

And Derek has this unbidden memory of when he was twenty-one. He'd met a girl named Marisol who wanted to teach him how to dance. She held him close, pressed her hips flush against his and said, "When I move, you move."

It's not— this isn't the same, but something about the moment brings on a sense of deja vu.

Stile pushes his hands under Derek's shirt, and mouths a line down Derek's neck. He sets the blunt edge of his teeth against the crook of Derek's neck and scrapes his teeth against Derek's skin. Derek makes a sound like a whimper and fists one hand in the sheets, the other in Stile's hair, holding him there.

They finish that way— first Derek, then stiles— and Stiles laughs, low, buzzing against Derek's skin. Derek wants more of that sound, more of— just more. Stiles is smearing kisses over Derek's cheek and mouth. He's saying, "Fuck," and laughing, satisfied.

"I wanted— " Stiles says, just as Derek's saying, "Our shoes are still on.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "But it was still pretty hot."

　

*

　

It would be a lie if Derek said he always wanted Stiles. There was a point where there wasn't much of anything that Derek really let himself want, and a whole host of other things he needed that seemed too far out of reach. So, it wasn't until everything had settled and everyone had gone off to college that he realized he didn't have to feed himself rage to survive; that there was more than rage in him; that he didn't just have to survive.

It was another year after that before he wanted things, saw Stiles home for Christmas— taller with his hair grown out; Derek wondered how he never noticed before how big Stiles was, never as frail as they made him seem— and Derek had a thought. It was small at first, and then grew, branching out and taking up space.

Derek didn't try to kill it, let it grow into something he could let himself believe he even deserved sometimes.

　

*

　

They're both naked now, clothes kicked off and lying at the foot of the bed, and Stiles sprawled half on top of Derek, head tucked under Derek's chin.

"Next time, I want to— " Stiles says. "We should— "  
  
"Yeah," Derek murmurs, warm and content. "Next time."


End file.
